A Twist in Destiny (Rewrite)
by IAMGinny
Summary: AU: Thirteen years ago, Lord Voldemort's Heir was take from him, presumed dead. Harry Potter grew up in a Rebel Camp, the last remaining pocket of Resistance against Voldemort's established reign. When Harry is captured during a routine scouting mission, certain discoveries are made and Harry finds himself in a position he never could have expected. That of Voldemort's son.
1. Prologue: Tolerable

**Hey guys, long time no . . . read? Write? I'm sorry, it's been a really insane year and I haven't had the time to even read fanfiction, let alone write it. But it's summer now! I was rereading this to get a grasp of my story again, and I was honestly appalled. Seriously, how did you guys even bare this crap? My grammar was atrocious, and Voldemort was disgustingly out of character. I understand that this is AU, but seriously? Ugh.**

 **So A Twist in Destiny is now under reconstruction! I will be rewriting this chapter by chapter, and taking that time to hopefully exercise my more mature literary capabilities and ability to story-tell. Because of this the story may be a bit choppy until I catch up to the current chapter. I do not plan on changing the overall plot, and many scenes may stay the same or at least similar, but I will be giving a more realistic character development to Voldemort and Harry both.**

 **Please give the reconstruction a chance, I can pretty much promise it will be a million times better. I want to thank you all for your support throughout this story, and assure you that I will be working on it pretty regularly now.**

 **Obviously anything you recognize as canon is JK Rowling's.**

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Prologue

As Tom Marvolo Riddle, Heir of Slytherin, he had never felt that base need to take part in carnal activities. That wasn't to say he hadn't, it was as effective a tool of manipulation as any, and could be pleasurable, but it was such a disgusting base instinct, really. It would have boggled his mind—had he been anyone but himself—that even the slyest of Slytherins could turn into vile, sweating pigs when sex became involved. But this was simply another way in which Tom knew he was different to those around him, superior. They were ruled by such barbaric acts, and he was not.

As the popular politician, Thomas Marvolo Gaunt, Lord of House Slytherin, he still saw no benefit in such pastimes, he had better things to do. Laws to impose, and the true formation of a Dark Alliance that went beyond the foolish House Loyalties of school children. He also knew, perhaps better than ever, that while he was superior in every way to these sniveling cretins, for now he should blend in with them. It disgusted him, he had thought he could be free of such trivial pursuits when he had graduated Hogwarts. But the easiest way to wrestle power from the corrupt Ministry, to implement his own rule with relative peace, was to do so gently.

If that meant that he would need to marry and procreate in order to produce an Heir for House Slytherin, then so be it. Political marriages were not at all uncommon, and if his "wife" were to have a horrible accident that left him a grieving single father, so much the better for public opinion.

He would allow himself to admit that he was also curious. If nothing else, his child would surely be brighter, more tolerable than others. He was curious to see what he could have been had he been raised correctly, not that he believed his progeny could possibly surpass him. The boy—for it would have to be a boy—could be useful in any case. A child would secure his position as Lord Slytherin once and for all. And if the boy became troublesome he could be subdued.

* * *

He had chosen a woman, a follower, for the honor the following year. She was beautiful, and more importantly loyal not only to the cause but to him. It had not been hard to lure her in, and they were married after only a few months. She was a Slytherin, of course, and under no illusions as to their arrangement. She would produce an Heir for him, and she would receive the highest of statuses in the New Regime.

And bare an Heir she did, nearly exactly nine months after they were wed.

He was named Hadrian Thomas Salazar Gaunt, a strong Pureblooded name. He was small and shriveled, ugly, and Tom felt no inclination to spend time with the screeching little urchin most of the time. But sometimes, when the boy slept, he was tolerable and he would sit in his nursery, reading reports or simply reading books for leisure.

He didn't know what he had expected in the child, perhaps something simply _more_. He was disappointed most of the time, the thing never stopped screaming, but during such instances, sometimes the boy would wake and simply stare at him with a sort of awareness in his eyes, and Tom wondered if the boy had inherited something of him other than his looks after all.

It seemed that he had, for by the time the boy was two, he was able to read simple sentences and solve simple math problems. The by then fully recognized Dark Lord (though his position received much pushback from the light) was not much surprised, he would never father a dull child, after all.

He wouldn't say he was particularly _fond_ of the boy, but he was . . . tolerable.

The Order of the Phoenix raided his stronghold when his son was two and a half. Regulus Black, one of the youngest of his Inner Circle, a bright boy, too perceptive for his own good, had betrayed the Cause. He ran to his blood traitor brother with the Order, and sold the location of his stronghold for protection. Later, he would die horribly at the Dark Lord's hands.

His wife died in an attempt to run, the bitch hadn't even tried to protect the boy.

Lord Voldemort's forces seized full control of the Ministry only weeks after, and as the Dark Lord tore the Minister's beating heart from his chest, he did not think on his raw and barely controlled rage.

The name Tom Riddle—along with any revenant of it— was no more, there was only Lord Voldemort.

And later, Harry Potter.

* * *

 **So there you have it! As you can see, Tom is way more in character, and this will cause new and interesting situations later in the story. As I said, ultimately this reconstruction will have the same overall plot, I'm just going to explore a slightly darker, more realistic version of the relationship between Harry and Voldemort than I had going in my original version of A Twist in Destiny.**

 **Tell me what you think, please! I really appreciate the insight of my readers! Also let me know if there are any scenes or over-arching themes you absolutely do not want to see redone, and I will find a way to make them work!**


	2. Chapter 1: And It All Goes to Hell

**Hey guys! So here is the rewritten version of chapter one! I did change some details in the first part, but it is largely the same, the second half is completely different however so bear with me, if you read this chapter and then read the original chapter three you will get really lost, but I should hopefully have the new chapter two up tomorrow.**

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Chapter 1: And It All Went to Hell

 _Twelve years, three months later . . ._

Harry Potter sat in the tent he shared with his godfather, studying. Yes, studying. Even though they were in the middle of a war, he had to _study_. He didn't want to do homework while the adults went and scouted out Britain for possible safe houses. He didn't want to go to Defense lessons while Sirius was out defending their camp's perimeters.

He wanted to be out there alongside the adults fighting for their cause. But he was too young. Even in the Rebel Camp children weren't allowed to fight until they were of age. Until then, he was stuck in Practical Training.

From nearly the time he could stand and walk on his own, he'd been taught to fight like a muggle. That way—when he came into his majority and was allowed to fight— if he lost his wand in a fight, he wouldn't be defenseless. When he was eleven he had started magical training in Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Potions, and Practical Use of Magic. It was the same for every child raised in the Camp.

Harry had been living in the Rebel Camp for the better part of his entire life. He and his parents had fled Britain when the Monster took over. Harry had been three. His parents had been part of the Order of the Phoenix—basically Dumbledore's private army—since graduating from Hogwarts, so if they hadn't fled they would have been killed.

Not that it had changed much in the end.

James and Lily Potter were dead.

"Hey Harry, Dumbledore wants to see you." Ronald Weasley, the youngest of the Weasley clan, said as he popped his head in through the tent flap. He was a tall, gangly boy with a sprinkling of freckles across his face, blue eyes, and the trademark fiery red hair. He was also Harry's best friend.

"Do you know what about?" Harry asked curiously with a raised eyebrow.

Ron grinned. "Official business, Potter. I don't know the details; we can't all be Dumbledore's Golden Boy. But Fred and George, ah, _overheard_ something about a scouting mission."

"I'm sure they did," Harry laughed.

Internally, Harry wrinkled his nose at the nickname. He'd been called that ever since he was small, when Dumbledore had been extended family to him. Sirius told him he'd used to call him Uncle Albus before his parents died. Privately, Harry didn't much like the old man. Dumbledore was brilliant, and probably all that kept their little camp from being blasted off the map, but he tended to underestimate Voldemort's forces (for some indecipherable reason) and people died when he did.

Like his Parents.

He also tended to stare at Harry with an odd, intense gleam in his eyes, and it unsettled him.

Harry kindly kept those thoughts to himself most of the time, however. Most of the Camp, especially the Weasleys, tended to hang off the man's every word and look to him as a god.

He stood from his spot on his bed and trotted alongside Ron to the Command Tent. They nodded amicably to Ron's brother Bill as he passed them, stopping only momentarily to tease him about the pretty French girl they'd seen him traipsing around town with lately. Apparently her name was Fleur.

As they neared the Command Tent Harry could make out the sounds of two people conversing heatedly. One was definitely Dumbledore—old, wizened, and long bearded. The other was Sirius. In his early thirties, with wavy dark hair, brown eyes, and a mischievous smile, he had most of the single women in the camp swooning over him in their free time. The fact that he'd practically raised Harry didn't hurt either.

Harry took a deep, calming breath as he entered the command tent, and Ron mouthed a "good luck" and scurried off after his brother.

While Dumbledore was his usual calm, controlled self, Sirius was beside himself. Harry could tell they were talking about him, Sirius had an overprotective streak several kilometers wide when it came to his godson.

Dumbledore smiled warmly as Harry entered, earning a blank look and respectful nod. He sighed; Harry was frightfully perceptive, and he had not doubt that the boy was leery of him. The boy was so like Tom in some ways, and looking at him was like looking his mistakes in the face.

He would not fail Harry as he had failed Tom.

Harry offered a small smile in Sirius' direction before looking back to Dumbledore, his face emotionless.

"Harry, my boy, how have you been?" Dumbledore asked.

"Fine, sir. I passed all of my Practical Exams."

"I'm well aware, that's actually what I wanted to talk about." Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling damningly.

Sirius was slowing growing redder. Finally, he growled out, "He's not going."

Harry looked to Sirius, "Going where?"

"Well, Harry, you've passed your Practical Exams for your year. Actually, you took the Seventh Year's Exams and managed to pass them as well. But next time, don't steal the Exam just to prove you could pass them, Harry. I think you're ready for a scouting mission."

"No he isn't! He's too young!" Sirius blustered.

"Sirius, he passed the Seventh Year's Exams. There's nothing left to teach him."

"Please, Sirius! I've been studying that stuff for months so I could pass those Exams! I proved I was ready! Please? It's just a scouting mission, no one gets into trouble on those!" Harry pleaded. He needed to do this mission. He needed to prove that he could do it. That he could fight.

Sirius folded his arms across his chest. "No."

"Oh, honestly, Sirius! Stop _mothering_ me! You're going to make me sit here and wait for _two years_? I'm ready now!"

"No you're not, Harry!" Sirius snarled.

"Sirius, please. People here treat me like I'm made of glass after what happened. I want— _need_ —to prove them wrong." Harry pleaded quietly.

Sirius looked torn. "Fine . . ."

"Thank you, Sirius!" Harry yelled as he threw himself at his godfather and wrapped his arms around his waist.

"But I'm coming as part of the scouting team." Sirius warned.

* * *

"Harry! Keep up, will you!" Sirius whispered furiously.

"I _am_ , Sirius. Calm down, nothing's going to happen." Harry whispered back, rolling his eyes.

"It's fine, Sirius. I'll make sure he's not last out." Kingsley Shacklebolt said in his deep baritone. Moody glared back at them. "Will you three _shut up_! The boy's fifteen, not five! He can take care of himself."

Harry moved up to walk with Moody. "Thanks Mad-Eye," he said quietly. Moody grunted in reply.

They crept through the abandoned house, sending out detection charms every few feet to find bugs. When they found nothing, Moody decided to split up.

"Meet back here in ten minutes, if you find anything, call for back-up. Potter, you're to stay here, understand?" Moody growled.

"But—"

"No buts Potter, stay here."

Harry sighed in annoyance. "Yes, sir."

"Good, that. Move out, the rest of you. _Constant Vigilance_!"

The rest filed out, save for Sirius.

"Sirius, I'll be fine. Go do your job." Harry sighed.

"But what if—"

"I'll be fine, I'll just keep an eye on things down here," Harry said firmly, staring at Sirius pointedly.

Sirius nodded and turned to ascend the staircase. "Just be careful." He threw over his shoulder.

Harry nodded and backed up into a dark corner of the room. He waited, ears pricked and eyes alert.

It happened quickly. One moment everything was silent except for the creak of an old floorboard and the sound of shifting bodies upstairs, then in sequence of loud "pops" Voldemort's men had the house surrounded. There was the sound of scuffling and shouts upstairs before silence rained.

 _Damn it, how did they find us?! And my portkey isn't working, they've got wards up._

If he could get past the anti-apparation wards he could still get help. He cast a disillusionment on himself and crept towards the front door, simultaneously thanking Merlin that no Aurors had apparated into the front room and praying that they wouldn't hear him.

That was when he was nearly hit with a blasting curse. The force of the explosion still sent him smacking into the nearby wall.

More dazed than actually hurt Harry rolled over just as a red light soared over his head. He realized belatedly that his disillusionment spell had slipped along with his concentration when he was blasted into the wall. His training kicked in and Harry was on his feet seconds later throwing a slicing hex at his attacker, following it up with a bludgeoning curse. The man blocked them with the pretego charm and tried to disarm him.

" _Pretego!"_ Harry yelled and watched as a shimmery blue shield protected him.

An unfamiliar curse shattered his shield and slammed into his chest. Harry cried out as pain ripped through him, his wand wrenched from his hand by the man standing over him.

The last thing Harry heard before he was hit with a stunner was Sirius.

"Harry!"

And then everything went black.

* * *

As the Aurors rounded up the last of the Rebels, all of which were stunned, they prepared to lower the wards around the old house they'd used as a trap. Richard Stienley was the team medic. He loved his job, loved that he could serve his country.

"Oi, Stienley! I need your help over here." Richard walked over to the corner where his fellow Auror was kneeling next to a figure sprawled on the floor. As he neared the pair he realized the Rebel was just a boy, no more than fifteen.

"Bloody hell, he's just a kid!"

"The little bugger was trained though, threw some nasty spells at me, he did." The other man exclaimed, shaking his head.

Stienley kneeled next to the boy, about to ask where the curse had hit. Then he saw his chest.

"Shit. You sure did do a number on him." He muttered.

"You'll be able to heal him, right?"

"Yeah, but he'll need a blood replenishing potion."

"Well get to it then!" The head Auror said grabbing one of the Rebels by the arm and disappearing with a "pop".

"Well let's get you fixed up." Stienley said. An _Episky_ and a potion later, the boy would live, even if he'd be sore as hell when he woke.

* * *

Harry woke with a groan and rolled over onto his back. Where was he? This . . . cot, it was definitely a cot, didn't feel like those in the Infirmary at home, so where . . .?

"Harry? You awake Prongslet?"

That was Sirius. Definitely Sirius.

He cracked his eyes open, wincing at the bright, harsh light and hitched a pained breath as he tried to sit up.

"Stay down!" Sirius murmured to him, a hand on his shoulder pushing him to lay back on the cot. He noticed it was the only form of furniture in the small room he and the four others were crammed into. Sirius sat on the cot beside him and Harry thought it was just as much a matter of conserving space as keeping an eyes on him.

Remus sat on the floor near Sirius' legs, watching him with concern in his bright eyes, supernatural hearing perked for any sign of approaching Aurors. Moody and Shaklebolt guarded the door, though Harry wondered a bit cynically how they thought that would do much of anything.

"How bad is it?" To anyone else it would have sounded brisk, but Sirius knew him, and knew the fear in his eyes even if his voice lacked it.

 _Can we escape?_

"They banged you up pretty bad, Kiddo. Just take it easy." Sirius' voice was sympathetic, and Harry could read between the lines.

 _No. Hang in there._

Aurors came into their small cell perhaps twice a day to bring food, never the same span of hours apart so that it was hard to gauge the real passage of time. This became the routine for what Harry hazarded was around a week.

The routine ended when the Dark Lord entered their cell.

The door, heavy, reinforced wood unlocked with a click and swung open to show not the customary Aurors with wands raised, but a man that looked to be a bit older than Sirius. Dark haired and handsome, he sported a pleasant mask of a smile, a smile with a cold edge of mocking cruelty.

"I'm star struck, truly, to have such . . . celebrity as my guests." The man's voice was smooth and deep, and Harry had no doubt that his voice could be charismatic if he wished it.

"Really, when I ordered the trap I figured that it would be Rebel lackeys I captured, never had I thought it would be the heroes of the rebellion."

His eyes roamed over each of them almost hungrily as he named them off.

"Alastor Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, and . . . who might you be?" The question was fired at him with genuine curiosity, and the man's gaze was penetrating. Harry dropped his eyes to his lap and retreated further behind Sirius, where his godfather had pushed him upon the cell door's opening.

"He's just my nephew, excuse him, he's understandably shy," Sirius bit out coldly.

"Regulus' boy? Oh I do owe him a personal visit sometime then. Your father and I always had such . . . fun together." The man murmured with dangerous amusement, voice soft.

Harry felt Sirius bristle at the mention of his brother, Regulus had been captured in the same raid his parents had died in. Harry tightened his grip on his godfather's arm as he tensed as if to pounce.

"I just thought I would come see for myself," the man continued, "You'll all be moved to Azkaban shortly, perhaps I'll even put you and the boy next to your brother Black, so you can hear his screams."

Sirius ripped from his hold and Harry reacted instinctively.

He threw himself at Sirius, pulling him down and away from the man, putting himself between his godfather and the man with a cry of "Sirius!"

He didn't think much on the fact that he'd drawn the man's attention to himself until he felt the piercing eyes drilling into him once more.

All was silent for a moment as he resolutely held the man's unreadable gaze. And then . . .

"What is your name boy?"

"Harry." He bit out, eyes narrowed.

Amusement and something undefinable played on the man's features, even as he tipped his head in greeting.

"Pleasure to meet you Harry, I am Lord Voldemort," he murmured mockingly, dangerously, as he turned and walked out of the cell.

The door slammed shut after him.

* * *

It was only hours later that Aurors stormed into the small cell. Five of them—more than was needed to deliver food—with wands raised and threatening.

Sirius' head snapped up as the door slammed open forcefully and they filed in, restraining Moody and Shacklebolt easily with wands at their throats. He rose, pushing Harry forcefully back onto the cot, and Remus rose with him, a wall between the Aurors and his godson.

The three remaining Aurors advanced and despite the physical struggle they put up, it was really no use against wands. Bound and helpless, all Sirius could do was watch in horror as the three Aurors advanced on Harry, subduing him easily and dragging him up from the cot.

"What's are you doing, let go off me! Get off! Sirius! What's going on? Sirius?!" Harry screamed as he kicked and struggled against the bodily hold of the Aurors.

His godson was dragged from the cell, his screams audible even after the door slammed shut behind the retreating Aurors.

* * *

 **So there's the completed revision of Chapter One! Please let me know how I did!**

 _ **Also, I'd really appreciate it if you guys let me know if it would be easier for you all if I simply reposted these chapters as a new, separate story under the same name. That way you would actually get an alert when I update? Let me know and I'll write another author's note about it as well.**_


	3. Chapter 2: The Boy Who Lived

**Oops, I did it again. At this point you guys expect it, don't you? Sorry I'm college student with a very short attention span, and I go in and out of phases of actually liking Harry Potter enough to write for it. Fantastic Beasts peaked my interest of the Wizarding World once more and it is Christmas Break, so maybe I'll crank out a few chapters!**

 **So, without further ado, I don't own Harry Potter. Enjoy my AU though!**

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Chapter 2: The Boy Who Lived

It was standard procedure to collect any blood found at crime scenes—domestic or foreign with cooperation—to be tested. In this case, there hadn't been much blood found at the scene of the trap, the fighting had been brief and unexpected on one side. Never the less, identification of the prisoners was also standard procedure.

Blood had been drawn while the prisoners were still unconscious, when the medics on stand-by were given permission to tend to the wounded. The team members were surprised, but pleased at the results of the first four. They had been expecting minor members of the rebel insurgency, but to find instead that four big names of the Rebellion—including Sirius Black and Alastor Moody—had been captured at last was sure to bring glory to all on the mission. Not to mention heightened safety from future terrorist attacks by the Rebellion's infamous front-runners.

That is, if the fifth rebel wasn't such a conundrum.

The boy was young, fifteen at the very oldest, and probably born within the confines of the Rebellion. Therefore, his blood shouldn't have been on Ministry records, and yet it was. Per Ministry records, this boy was Hadrian Thomas Salazar Gaunt.

Lord Voldemort's dead son.

They retested the boy several times, and yet the result remained constant. Not only that, the boy looked eerily like their Lord. The dark hair and fair skin were too common to be incriminating. No, it was the eyes that did it, startlingly bright green like the killing curse, and the head medic was old enough to recall the one picture that had ever been released of the Dark Lord's son, after his death. He remembered green eyes like that on the tiny, pale face of two-year-old Hadrian Gaunt. Not like his father in color, for the Dark Lord's eyes had been a rather unremarkable brown before they'd been an intense dark red, but in some other indescribable way that just _was_.

This boy was somehow, impossibly, Hadrian Gaunt.

And the Dark Lord had already been informed.

Fury overwrote reason for longer than Voldemort would have liked to admit. The incompetent fools had obviously blundered something, and yet they had the simple-minded audacity to summon him— _urgently_ —to tell him that they had found his long dead offspring.

He had watched them once again test a vial of blood taken from the rebel boy in the holding cell far below ground . . . and seen the result for himself.

Further angered at their incompetency, he tested it himself . . . and received the same result.

What was Dumbledore playing at? How had he charmed some rebel scum to show up as Hadrian on Ministry records? He had to have a mole, a spy somewhere in the Department of Magical Registration that had tampered with the records pertaining to his son.

So, he went down to the cells to interrogate the prisoners and just how they had managed it . . . and saw him.

He had known that the boy would have looked like him had he lived to be grown, and the Rebel boy was nearly a replica of Tom Riddle. With startling green eyes.

There were subtle differences, hints of his mother in the set of his eyes and his nose, the slight curl to his hair.

This boy was what Voldemort would have imagined Hadrian to look like, had he ever taken the time.

He ignored the boy for the moment, taking some pleasure in goading the others. He did ask who the boy was, knowing he would get no honest answer, and Black tensed as he snapped an answer.

Black was a horrid liar, and though the boy had a passing resemblance to the Blacks, he certainly wasn't one himself. He'd thought the boy timid, but his mind was open and the thought that floated to the front of it was surprising.

. . . _meet his eyes . . . legilimens . . ._

It seemed the boy was merely more intelligent than he'd first assumed.

His attention was drawn fully to the boy when he threw himself in front of Black, and surprisingly, didn't duck from his gaze again.

He met it. The boy _glared_ at him.

It was amusing—though impertinent—when he could practically smell his fear.

"What is your name boy?" The words were carefully blank, so as not to show amusement.

The boy still met his eyes as he bit out a single word.

"Harry."

 _Harry . . ._

He allowed just a touch of amusement to surface. He tipped his head in mock greeting. His heart may have speed, for just that moment.

"Pleasure to meet you, Harry. I am Lord Voldemort."

 _And perhaps . . . I will be sure._

He turned and left the cell.

* * *

Harry was dragged from the cell screaming, but a firm shake and a box to the ear pulled him from his momentary panic. He went calmly from then on, and the two Aurors seemed to relax, and though their grips did not, they weren't bruising as they'd been when pulling him from the cell.

He tried to look around for a possible escape route, but another box to the ear and a firm, "Ain't nothing to see kid," forced him to keep his head turned forward. He looked from the corners of his eyes, but the man hadn't been lying, the hallway was long, white, and without doors on either side.

They turned suddenly and Harry, thinking he'd be knocked into the wall, instinctively tried to pull his arms from their grasp to catch himself. They held fast to him and he fell through the wall, one Auror following, one not.

They were in a completely different room now, on what seemed to be a different floor, or even a different building.

Harry was so surprised by it that he didn't even struggle when he was pushed into one of the two chairs in the room, on either side of an ancient looking wooden table. Shifting in his seat showed that the chair had a sticking chair on it, rather than the chains he'd been expecting.

The Auror retreated to a seemingly random spot of the wall, facing forward and acting as if Harry didn't exist.

He decided not to draw attention—and therefore ire—to himself, for the moment.

It was some indiscernible amount of time later (the room was larger and cleaner, but still had no windows or clocks) that a voice spoke.

"Thank you Auror Clearwater, that will be all for the moment."

* * *

Harry only just kept himself from jumping out of his skin at the unfortunately familiar voice. Harry still tensed at the fact that he was now alone in a room with Lord Voldemort.

He couldn't turn enough to see the man, though he knew that Voldemort was directly behind him and not very far away.

Their breathing was the only sound in the room for a moment, Harry's struggling under tight control and the Dark Lord's deceptively calm.

" _You are quite the conundrum, Harry."_

Harry twitched as words were finally spoken, but dared to not answer.

There was a huff of hair, vaguely amused, and footsteps.

A hand on the back of his neck.

Harry flinched and jerked away as well as he could, he still couldn't see the monster terrorizing him.

"Don't touch me!"

The Dark Lord merely chuckled, and emerged into his field of vision.

" _Now there is the fire I saw in holding cells, I thought the Auror's may have beaten it out of you . . . I would've had to punish them."_

Harry's curiosity got the best of him, for a moment, _"Why?"_

Something gleamed in the man's eyes, and he looked quite pleased for a moment before answering, "Because I ordered them not to touch you."

Harry swallowed another question on _Why the hell would you do that?_ and let his eyes fall to his lap.

"I've a deal to discuss with you." This stark statement was delivered as the Dark Lord walked around the desk and with a swish of his wand (Harry flinched) the plain, uncomfortable wooden chair became a regal but much more comfortable looking chair. Voldemort sat with a flourish, his eyes had not once left Harry.

Harry's mouth was dry, and he couldn't keep the angry confusion from his voice as he snapped, "What?"

"A deal, Child."

Harry bristled at the name, and the subject of discussion.

"If you think I'd ever make a deal with _you_ —"

"I think you will, if you want to save the rebel scum you call friends." The insult rolled off the man's tongue, and he smirked at the fury Harry no longer cared to hide.

Before Harry could speak, Voldemort continued.

"The common punishment for anyone suspected of joining the terrorist group you call a Rebellion is Azkaban." He silenced Harry with a raised wand and a silencing spell, which received a glare, "I am sure you do not see it this way, the way you were raised, but planned attacks against British citizens on British soil is terrorism." He ignored the thought that floated rather clearly to the fore-front of the boy's mind, _and what would you call what you do_ , and continued.

"However, your . . . companions are known members of Dumbledore's Rebellion, and have been charged with several counts of murder amongst other things. The penalty for that would be the Dementor's Kiss."

Harry felt the blood leave his face. He felt cold.

"Judging your reaction, you know exactly what that would entail. I am giving you a chance to . . . lessen their sentence. I will wipe all reports of yesterday's events clean. Five no-name Rebels were found, five were systematically done away with. In all reality, your rebel friends will be moved to a secure prison facility where I can ensure you of their health. No Azkaban, no Dementors. All I ask in return is that you obey me."

He let the silencing charm drop, and Harry spoke immediately.

"I won't betray the Rebellion, I won't tell you anything."

Voldemort, surprisingly, chuckled. "I am not asking you for that Child. All I ask that you not resist what I have in store for you."

Harry thought before speaking, this time.

"And what is it you want from me? How can I possibly be more important than the end of four prominent Rebels?"

"As to your first question, that is for me to know, and to tell you when I feel you are . . . more prepared, to hear what I have to say. Rest assured, you will not be harmed as long as you behave. As to your second question, the first answers that."

"What do you want from me?" Harry asked again, fearing the answer but needing to know.

"I want you to remain in Britain as my ward." The Dark Lord answered simply, one eyebrow slightly raised.

Fear took over for a moment, and the word was out before he could stop it.

"NO!"

The Dark Lord's Expression cooled, and the room was filled with chokingly dark, raw magic.

"Make no mistake Harry, you will remain in Wizarding Britain either way. It is merely your choice as to whether you want to be comfortable or locked away somewhere. And on whether you would like to save the other rebels."

Harry was silent, though he knew he had no real choice.

"If I agree to . . . be your ward, how will I know you haven't had them Kissed?"

Voldemort's expression was victorious as he leaned forward and murmured,

"Well you'll just have to trust your Guardian, won't you?"

* * *

 **So there you go! Chapter 2, much** _ **much**_ **darker than the original. I made the decision to keep Sirius and the others prisoner rather than letting them go, it was too out of character and really kind of stupid. Plus this way, Voldemort has something much more solid to hang over Harry's head to make him behave.**

 **Obviously Voldemort isn't as cuddly in this version, which is more accurate, I think, so it will make the relationship between him and Harry much more complicated. Don't worry, they'll get there.**

 **I actually had a really good time writing this chapter, so maybe I'll try to crank out another chapter in the next few days? Reviewing really helps, seriously guys I'm more likely to update if you show some interest!**

 **BTW Voldemort was talking to Harry in Parseltongue when he first came into the interrogation room, to see if Harry really is his son.**

 **-Ginny**


End file.
